


A Step Behind

by gaialux



Category: Paris je t'aime (2006)
Genre: Language Barrier, M/M, Paris (City), Pre-Slash, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:52:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2558678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaspard left and Elie knew he had to go after him. Only he had nothing to go on, nothing to help him search.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Step Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musicforwolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforwolves/gifts).



> Happy yuletide!

_“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,  
_ _And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”_  
\- A Midsummer's Night Dream, Shakespeare.

 

Elie found himself at the station.

The day was ending and people rushed to where they needed to be. Elie pressed his way through the crowds and desperately sought a glance of shaggy dark hair that already felt so familar to him, even if he couldn't pinpoint why. The man had said his name was Gaspard, hadn't he? Not that it was much to go off in a city with so many. Elie still clung to that as he craned his neck above the others.

“Have you seen—?” he tried to anyone who would listen. He knew his French was still filled with too many wrong sounds, though nobody seemed to hear him as they continued walking past.

A hand settled against his shoulder and Elie spun around to face an old man with a shock of grey hair spilling out from under his hat. “ _Qui est-ce que vous cherchez?_ ”

Elie couldn't understand him. The man spoke too fast and Elie's translation book was stuffed into his backpack at his dorm, hidden away, because he wanted to at least _appear_  like he belonged here. Not that the plan had been working so far. Only one word the man said struck his brain and came back with a translation —  _cherchez_. 

Searching.

“It was—” he cringed and swallowed at words. Out of his pocket he pulled the crumpled piece of paper with the man's — Gaspard's — phone number. Maybe  _this_ man could at least direct him to a public phone.

“ _Non._ ” He took the paper and shook his head. He studied Elie for a moment longer before saying, "The numbers, not enough."

Elie took the paper back and ran his eyes it. The man was right. It was one short, the final digit torn away with a jagged edge of yellowed paper. Elie stared at it for a long while and tried to re-play the entire conversation he'd had with Gaspard.

_"Have we met before?"_

He'd asked that. Elie was almost sure of it, because he'd felt the same way. A spark of memory he couldn't place. Gaspard hadn't resembled anyone from home or any of the people who had come through the print store in the last few months, but the persistent lingering of  _something, something_ wouldn't leave Elie. He had to find Gaspard and he couldn't explain why.

"Are you?" the man asked, and gestured toward the train pulling up.

Elie dug into his pockets again and thankfully found his pass there, rather than left in his discarded jacket. He'd go back to his place, find his book, and continue from there.

 

* * *

 

The Eiffel Tower was one of the first places Elie had visited upon arriving in France. It seemed like a cliché to see, but that didn't make it any less beautiful. During the day there were always people around: tour groups and families and friends and lovers. Cameras flashing and phones clicking. At night more of the same, but brilliant yellow lighting it up and making Elie think it could be a different place, a different time.

Now, the sun was falling deep into the horizon, throwing out its final streams of purple and orange. Elie made his way to one of the park benches and began scouring his book for  _something_  he could use—some clue or answer from that conversation to make up for what he missed elsewhere. Gaspard had spoken some English, to Christian when he'd entered the shop. This wasn't a completely lost cause.

Elie lit a cigarette and replayed what he could of the conversation. It wasn't much. Snippets of words like "hello" and "Gaspard". The joins of "and" and "the" stringing along sentences Elie  _knew_ had to mean something more than what he was getting.

The pen scratched along the margins as he kept trying to think. They were already filled with his own translations of dialect and a few print ideas when he had nothing else on hand as paper. The shape of a face took form, followed by hair with long bangs. Maybe he could try it this way — old-fashioned missing person signs plastered on telephone poles and building walls. Of course there was also the online alternative, but there was so little he actually  _knew_. Gaspard was almost a complete mystery to him, a ghost.

Nothing in his translation book stood out to him, and it was getting late. Thumbing through the pages didn't work, and scanning them in a wait for something to jump out was more of the same. Maybe if he read the whole thing, cover to cover, there would be an answer. Maybe. There was nothing cement about any of these plans and it would be dark before he even tried half of them.

With a sigh, Elie stood again. At least there would be more light for him to look back in his room.

 

* * *

 

When Elie awoke it was still dark. He blinked hard once, twice, and there were enough tendrils of light streaming through his open window for him to see his way around. The memories didn't come _flooding_ back to him; it was more like a puzzle piecing itself together. Parts of a whole until it was there, mostly a full picture, but some faces and landmarks still missing.

The calender across from him showed the date as the 17th.

_17th._

Another piece slotted into place and Elie shot out of bed.

 

* * *

 

It shouldn't have been enough. The 17th arrondissement was too big to make any sense with only that bit of information. But what else did Elie have? Even at six in the morning he found himself there, eyeing the apartment complexes and trying to decide which stab-in-the-dark was worth starting at.

Shops were also beginning to open. The smell of coffee, sugar, and pastries floating from the cafés and early-morning restaurants. He considered stopping some of the servers and asking if they recognised Gaspard based on a description or sketch. By the time he'd passed half a dozen of the store fronts, he decided there was nothing left to lose.

É-C-L were the three letters he could make out from the sign at the store-front. Inside the walls were a wicked purple to match the counter Elie walked up to.

The woman standing behind greeted him in French as she continued placing cupcakes into the glass-window counter. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for someone," Elie said. He twisted his fingers into the straps of his backpack, hoping would be able to help him and afraid this would result in nothing. "Gaspard — he lives in this arrondissement."

"I know a few people with that name," the woman said. She stood and brushed her hands on her apron. "How do you know him?"

"He came into my work," Elie said. He struggled to find all the words, tongue stalling against the roof of his mouth. "To have a print made."

"His own artwork?"

Elie nodded. His chest clenched.

"Then I think I do." Behind Elie there was the sound of a bell jingling. Another customer walking inside and the woman's eyes drifted toward them. "You just missed him. He comes in each morning, leaves going toward  _Prony_. Sorry, one moment—"

He considered waiting, to find out more, but it didn't sound like this woman could give him the exact address and if Elie had  _just_ missed him...

It was better to go and try.

He gave a short wave as he left the store then picked up into a jog after turning right. It was the best lead he'd had.

 

* * *

 

Elie came to a stop in front of one of the duplexes. Looking up toward it's windows and considering how close he could be to finding out more about Gaspard.

He walked inside, past the foyer with no questions asked, and knocked on the first door he saw. He would do this again and again and again until someone helped him out. Go back to his place, wake up in the morning, start over. It wasn't a matter of giving up now — it was a matter of when it could all be done.

The door clicked open and standing there was the same man from the station yesterday. Same hair and eyes and hat. Even in the early morning he was completely put together. He looked at Elie before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You are still searching?"

Elie nodded stiffly. "His name is Gaspard." The one thing he'd forgotten to mention the first time.

A flicker of recognition dawned on the man's face and that smile grew even wider. " _Quatre_ that way." He pointed right.

And Elie left the duplex and took off in that direction, running past the rows of apartments and side-stepping a woman walking her dog. Heart pounding fast and loud enough to thunder through his ears and burn with every breath. If he couldn't find him here, couldn't at least start putting the pieces together...

"Elie."

The sound of his name brought Elie to a dead-halt, his feet scraping on the sidewalk. He whipped his head around to take in the person behind him. It was Gaspard, even though it took Elie's mind a few seconds to tick over before that actually registered. _Gaspard_  standing there with wind-blown hair and a black folder — the same or similar to yesterday — tucked under his arm. Elie couldn't make his feet move, but Gaspard was closing the space between them anyway. He stopped close enough for Elie to touch.

"Elie," Gaspard said again, sounding more like a breath this time. He drew his fingers against Elie's cheek before sliding them into his hair. " _J'_ _attendais votre coup de fil_."

"I..."

"You don't...?"

Elie shook his head. "Not well."

The smile Gaspard gave him was blinding, enough to rival the fully blooming sunrise. His eyes trailed down to Elie's mouth and Elie nodded firmly. They could understand this. It was a good a starting point as any.

The kiss that came felt like home.

**Author's Note:**

>  _“Qui est-ce que vous cherchez?”_ \-- "Who are you searching for?"  
>  _"J'attendais votre coup de fil."_ \-- "I was waiting for your call."


End file.
